


Call Me

by caras_galadhon (Galadriel)



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: M/M, New Zealand
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-13
Updated: 2011-10-13
Packaged: 2017-11-03 07:43:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/378990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Galadriel/pseuds/caras_galadhon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just like every other job, filming LotR had to come to an end, but tucked up back home in England, Sean finds something is still nagging at him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Call Me

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [](http://savageseraph.livejournal.com/profile)[**savageseraph**](http://savageseraph.livejournal.com/) for giving this a quick look and an encouraging nudge. This one is for all the VigBean ladies I've had the privilege of knowing over the years. Here's to the ol' OTP!

The end of a job was always a bittersweet time. There was relief in wrapping it all up, saying goodbye to the long days of nothing but waiting interspersed with short flurries of activity, cutting the tethers that kept you dallying in the hot sun or cold winds waiting for the right light or the right mood. There was joy in packing up your things, knowing that the next stop was the comfort of home, of old friends ready to pick up a pint and the same ancient conversation threads that had almost worn themselves down to nubs. There was pure, unadulterated glee in the knowledge that you would be soon reacquainting yourself with the smell of your youngest's hair, the roll of your oldest's eyes, and the cocky grin of your middle girl, who was picking up all your bad habits in the most charming of ways.

Yet even on the short jobs, the week here, the guest spot there, there was always something a little sad about saying goodbye. Sometimes it was just the awareness that you'd never see the light shine in exactly that way on exactly that place ever again, or you knew you'd never again find coffee brewed so badly as to be equally vile and addictive all at once. More often, though, it was the people you missed, the connections you made, even when you were a surprisingly quiet bloke that was just as happy solitarily flipping through a magazine in a shadowed corner of set as downing the nth beer near the end of a full-blown cast and crew pub crawl.

So Sean knew beyond a doubt that it'd be hard leaving the _Lord of the Rings_ set. He knew it'd be harder than most partings, given how long they'd lived in each other's back pockets, and how the Fellowship seemed to have crawled inside each other's skins. He knew he'd miss John's unending stories, the way he'd show up and rumble, "Sean! Have I told you about the time Harrison and I locked horns over _Temple_ rewrites?" without the faintest acknowledgement that he'd told the same story the day before, with a different set of embellishments, or, indeed, that there had been any break in the conversation at all. He knew he'd miss ruffling Orlando's hair, or having to gently extract himself from his umpteenth embrace, or uncurling the boy's fingers from a mug of tea before he dropped it out of exhaustion. He'd certainly miss the way Ian called him "Dear boy," with a coquettish wink, as if he was back in his twenties again and being sussed out by more experienced actors for talent and tumbling, all at the same time. There was no doubt he'd miss how Elijah, their blue-eyed boy, fell asleep everywhere, including while standing in line for catering and in the middle of sentences, and would just as easily jerk back awake, as fresh as a daisy and as chattery as a monkey, at a moment's notice. He'd miss Astin's overwrought worries, his deliberate and careful thoughtfulness, his earnestness even after being the butt of prank after prank after prank. And while he wouldn't miss some of the pranks -- although he'd miss getting his own type of revenge in turn -- he knew he'd miss Billy and Dom, both separately and at the same time, so very much like puzzle pieces that were completely unrecognizable apart, but when snapped together, made an entirely different, entirely perfect picture.

And of course he'd miss Viggo, his mate, his pal, the only other man approaching his own age, and he'd miss him simply because... because he was _Viggo_ , and there was no one like him anywhere else in the world.

But still, leaving -- even if he was the first to go, and likely missing out on the kind of bonding that'd go on in the months to come -- meant seeing the most important people in his life again, sooner rather than later. It meant knocking off the early calls and heavy costumes and heavier props. It meant being able to relax and recuperate and fall back into the rhythm of life at home.

So why was it, six days and nearly nineteen thousand kilometres later, Sean wondered, that he was tossing and turning in the sheets, tangling himself up over and over again, consumed by a nagging dread that he was forgetting something, missing something, needing something that was just out of reach?

He flopped onto his back, kicking at the coverlet in a fit of pique, only minorly mollified by the hiss as it slid off the end of the bed and onto the floor. Eyes wide in the dark, making out nothing more than the greying edges of things, Sean wracked his brains, trying to recall what had woken him up this time. He strained his ears, hearing nothing but the soft click and hum of a house after midnight. He didn't smell smoke, nor gas, and there was no one in the room but him. Sighing heavily, he rolled onto his side, grabbing for a pillow, mashing it into a ball and shoving it under his head. Orange digits glowed at him out of the dark, insistent that it was 3:45 am, and that he needed to know that, right this minute. ...And that now it was 3:46, with the promise that if he didn't shut his eyes, it would be 3:47 soon, and on to 3:48, and on until morning came with no good excuse to stay tucked up in the bedroom, even if he was dragging his arse.

Sean growled even as he squeezed his eyes tightly closed, determined to slide effortlessly back into dreamland, [where he was a viking](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cbh4u_oA0rk)\--

_What was it that had woken him?_

Fuck. His eyes were open again, against explicit orders not to be. For one fleeting moment, Sean considered getting up and traipsing out to the couch, flipping on the telly and stretching out to fall asleep in front of the low buzz of infomercial after infomercial, but there was too much danger of that plan ending in the purchase of one amazing new adjustable ladder to replace twenty-six different kinds -- none of which he'd ever need -- or membership in a fruit of the month club that never delivered anything on time or anywhere approaching "fresh." Instead, he took a slow, deep breath, and let his mind wander, hoping it would light upon whatever was disturbing him, whatever had kept him from getting over jetlag almost a week on. Hell, he'd give it twenty minutes, and if that didn't work, he'd try counting sheep. It wasn't like there weren't always some right outside the window wherever he laid his head in New Zealand, and there was that time that Viggo had offered to count them for him, as if it was a chore on a clock on the way to sleep that he had to punch in and out from, but then, the man was always nonsensical and maddening and--

\-- _Oh._

Untangling his fingers from the pillowcase, Sean rubbed at his forehead and eyes, sighing heavily. They were just _mates_. Friends. And if it was such a big deal, he could ring Viggo easily enough, have a quick chat, even if that sort of thing was for girls and he'd never rung another man in his life, not to do much more than ask for a favour or check up on plans or ask after their hot sister.

But last time he checked, Viggo didn't have a hot sister. And there were no plans or favours in the cards. Maybe the lot of them, the whole Fellowship, would get together for some reunion down the road, or maybe they'd bump into each other when one or the other of them was in the same place as he was, or maybe there'd be a premiere or a screening or something that would bring them all together again. But for all intents and purposes, Sean was rapidly realizing, when they'd said goodbye, a door had shut.

Sean shivered a little as the realization blew over him. It wasn't as if he wasn't used to the business, didn't know how you entered and exited each little hothouse, each film project a hive of activity until the bees took flight and scattered to the winds, but this time... This time, something about that made him profoundly... sad.

He shook his head, muttered wordlessly into the darkness, and sat up. He heard a pillow thump to the floor before he could catch it, but didn't bother to retrieve it, instead focussing on piling the rest behind his back, then leaning over to flick on the light.

Christ, but that hurt. The flare of electricity meeting filament stabbed at the corners of his eyes, and he squinted against them until the pain subsided. Much to his own personal annoyance, his brain had taken it upon itself to replay memories of New Zealand, a montage of places and faces. Viggo's birthday, paper hats and cakes cut with swords; a quiet night in after Abby had sent 'round the papers he needed to sign, and how, unbidden and unannounced, Viggo had brought over the worst take-away in the history of ever and enough beer to fell an elephant; rough nights out under the stars, the younger set sharing a joint with Ian while John, Viggo and he had clinked bottles cooled in a nearby stream; the smell of Viggo, tobacco and earth and wood, as he rolled closer and closer in his sleep until their sleeping bags touched, their hips separated by nothing more than a few inches of fabric and batting.

That last set something stirring low in Sean's belly, and he glanced down, cocking an eyebrow in surprise. "Really?" he muttered aloud. "Really, _really_?"

He shook his head. Maybe he was a bit obtuse at times, but he wasn't a complete fool. It had been years since he'd felt such stirrings, decades, maybe, which was long enough to have forgotten exactly what it felt like. He'd missed it until now, until the pieces started clicking into place, the wisps and fragments coalescing out of air, but now he realized he'd been dreaming of the same thing, night after night. Not just New Zealand, although there was no doubt he missed it, nor the Fellowship, although he missed the lot of them too. No, he was missing a soft smile, a slur of syllables, a scent, a sense, a certain someone. He was an idiot, but at least he was an idiot with a phone. He reached for the receiver, steadfastly ignoring the butterflies that blossomed into being in his stomach. He hadn't made it this far by being timid, and if Viggo didn't care to hear what he had to say... Well, he'd cross that bridge when it wasn't on fire, or whatever the damn saying was.

Dial tone beeping in his ear, he punched in Viggo's mobile number by rote, and snorted when he realized he'd bothered to memorize it. The butterflies fluttered a little harder as the dial tone resolved into ringing, and he swallowed against a sudden lump in his throat. It was four am, after all. Anything he confessed now could be taken back later. That was the rule, wasn't it?

He wondered, briefly, if that rule held fast across time zones.

A sudden click brought his nerves to a head, but where he expected Viggo's sleepy, slurred, welcoming words, instead he was rewarded with a strange high-pitched hum, an almost perfunctory series of pops assaulting his ear as an automated service on the other end picked up. Of course. If Viggo wasn't asleep himself, he'd be out on set and unreachable. Sean sighed, steeling himself for the beep. But before it came, there was an odd crackle, and then that familiar voice, caught in the midst of muttering, "...essages want to be free. So you should leave one, captured here until I can claim it and set it loose in the whorl of my ear."

Sean snorted in the pause that followed, suffused with a soft flush of warmth running through his body. He opened his mouth to speak, sure he'd been distracted enough to miss the beep, but as his lips began to shape letters into being, the recorded message interrupted.

"...Oh. This is Viggo. Did I mention that yet?"

He smothered a nervous laugh just as the beep pierced the receiver. "Vig? It's Sean. The dead one, without the hairy feet. I... D'you think you could ring me? I-- I'd like to talk."

There. He'd done it. He replaced the handset in the cradle, turned out the light and slid back down the mattress into blessed darkness. Whatever happened now, the ball was in Viggo's court, and it was up to him whether it went any further. He credited the man with enough sense in his head to infer from Sean's tone, if nothing else, but even if he didn't, three words or so placed discreetly at the beginning of their conversation should clear that right up.

But all that was a worry best left for the morning. A wave of exhaustion flowed over Sean; the pillows were soft, the mattress comfortable, the sheets inviting. He was sure he could sleep now, could get the rest he so richly deserved, and he let himself float into it, embracing the blessed nothingness, the dreams to come.

And just as he was nodding off, just as the soft cotton wool of dreams descended, one sharp, cold thought shot through his mind. _Oh fuck_ , he thought, _he doesn't have my number_.


End file.
